


You Can Cut Me Like a Knife

by gunboots



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Angst, Barebacking, Dark, Dubious Morality, Eddie Brock also makes a cameo, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, I'm Going to Hell, I'm Sorry, M/M, MJ makes a cameo, Mildly Dubious Consent, Peter Parker has no idea and thinks he's hot, Quentin Beck has issues, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-27 18:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21123146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunboots/pseuds/gunboots
Summary: Peter Parker knows exactly the kind of danger he and his friends have put themselves in, knows exactly what kinda person would run a place like Mysterio’s.Quentin is unbothered—snakes always know just when to strike.





	You Can Cut Me Like a Knife

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry I'm so late, this is more a sampler, or I guess even a prequel to what I was originally intending with the fill. It was rewritten more than twice cause I overdid it on research and even now I had to cut parts out wholesale because I'm the kind of person who just starts writing mid-way through Peter's POV and it made no sense why it was even happening. I'M SO SORRY EVERYONE, IT'S LATE AND IT'S ONLY THROUGH BECK'S POV. 
> 
> Anyways, I checked over this a few times but I'm sure I'll have some mistakes here and there. Please mind the tags mentioned above, it's dubious consent in that Peter is definitely more on the drunk side of tipsy so I figured I'd warn for that. Also, comments moderated because apparently people still ignore tagged warnings. Title is from Ida Maria's "Cherry Red" ok.

Quentin's place isn't big enough for the heavy hitters to mess with, doesn't have to worry about sharp-suited thugs with knife-edged smiles asking pointedly "**_who does he owe the pleasure to_**" as he feels the silver kiss of a gun to his temple. Quentin is charming, good at keeping the gangsters out of his business and more importantly, out of his fucking till. He pays a protection fee but it's more formality at this point, Kingpin's a despot but he's a despot that leaves him alone and gets everyone else off his back—if that what it takes then so be it. It's nice though, he keeps it classy—channels the best of new money he can, makes the place look aces enough to attract young money—not nice enough to garner the bad sort of attention but good enough for the spoiled children of the city to frequent when they want to rebel on daddy's dime.

**_Mysterio's _** is his pride and joy, his way of crawling back from the brink of obscurity. His liquor in demand, protection assured, and cut-throat enough to get his way in without pulling the trigger—things couldn't be fucking going better for him. As far as speakeasies go, his place is the fucking aces. 

*

A lifetime ago, Quentin Beck had a future, a good one built on honest living and with nothing but the stars in his reach. He'd been the pride of his family, of his neighborhood—he found a way out, got invited to a fancy new job with legitimate work, was at the forefront of innovation. A lifetime ago, Quentin Beck had one daydreamed of being the second in command at Stark Industries.

(Even now, he can’t help the sneer that cuts him deep at the idea—how brainwashed he’d been.)

The only problem with his once-promising future was Tony Stark himself. He was just as bad as all the industrialists that ruled over Wall Street, hell he was so much worse because he had convinced Quentin that he wasn’t. He’d taken all of Quentin’s ideas, all of his credit, everything good about him and used it for himself and in circumstances like that, left everything but his damn bones to him.

A life of crime hadn’t been hard to get into—not when people like Stark were taking millions from people like him anyway, and they were getting plaques from the goddamn Mayor for it.

He’d left it all behind, left Stark and his whole soul-sucking lot, left the science that sang in his soul behind, for bootlegging. And he excelled at it—chemistry wasn’t as familiar to him as engineering was, but he was smart, capable, adaptive. It wasn’t rocket science to figure distillery out. (Anything was easier than putting up with Tony Stark’s increasingly erratic demands.)

Most people haven’t even put two-and-two together that he used to be Stark’s fucking prized pupil, one of his best and brightest.

Peter Parker is no exception.

The kid comes in with a gaggle of his friends—obviously there on a dare, it’s quaint in a way that would be cute if there wasn’t a low simmer of danger in the air from all the illegal fraternizing going around and the many, many guns under the counter and on Quentin’s people. They stick out like a sore thumb, botching the password at the front door and then sheepishly sticking together like a pack of scared rabbits in a wolf’s den. Quentin eyes them up from the bar and tries not to smirk.

He can immediately tell who Peter Parker is right away.

Just because Tony Stark forgot about him, doesn’t mean he forgot about Tony Stark. He’s read the papers, he knows that Tony’s got a new crop of bright-eyed, bushy-tailed recruits to suck the ideas and soul from and the front-runner of them all is Peter Parker. A good boy who’s just caring for his single, widowed Aunt from their tiny place in Queens, all pretty and wholesome that he immediately drives Quentin to want to ruin him. Quentin isn’t stupid, he never mentions his inclinations, never remarks on what he wants, why he thumbs through articles of Peter Parker and his wonderous internship at Stark Industries on slow days. There’s something about a clever young man with the fast-talking mouth, lithe muscles, and eye-catching thighs he wants to ruin.

All the better the kid’s got so much on him from Stark, so much written in giant letters, _WARNING! PROPERTY OF STARK INDUSTRIES!_ Is written all over him. It’s a great way to fucking kill two birds with one bullet: why not take this promising young thing and have his fun? All the better that he can stick it to Tony Stark and hell, if anything he’s keeping this kid from getting attached from putting all his hopes on that asshole anyway.

It's a terrible idea.

If it all goes south, it's a fucking death sentence. Anthony Edward Stark has the kind of money that makes people disappear—former prodigies included. Hell, the asshole will probably send fucking flowers to his Ma, act like he has no idea what happened even with the blood on his suit.

Still, it's tempting.

So fucking tempting.

Quentin was always too fucking daring for his own good—it's always cost him.

Even then, he’s a fucking survivor. He’s done worse than play with fire—he’s already been burnt once, might as well see what it’ll take to reduce him to ash completely.

It’s not hard to introduce himself with a flourish, knows he makes a dashing figure in a fresh three-piece suit the color of ebony (his version of armor in this cut-throat battlefield of booze, cigarettes, and secrets), knows just what to say to get the group’s guard down.

Peter doesn’t fall for his act as easily as he expected, no adoring gaze, no hand clutched to his chest—but that’s fine, Quentin is nothing if not patient. Parker’s from a rough neighborhood from what Quentin remembers—had to survive hand over fist before Tony Stark and his empty, glittering promises came in. Parker may be a whiz kid with the weight of the world on his shoulders but he isn’t naive. He knows exactly the kind of danger he and his friends have put themselves in, knows exactly what kinda person would run a place like **_Mysterio’s_**.

Quentin is unbothered—snakes always know just when to strike.

*

The magic number is three—that’s how many drinks it takes for Parker to loosen up, for his friends to let their guard down enough to leave. There’s a little space in the bar for dancing, a singer crooning about her long lost love on a tiny stage, the band behind her playing close enough it almost seems like she wears the music like a shawl. People sway to the beat on wood flooring beaten in submission with dancing, scuffed to shine. As Parker’s friends trickle off in pairs, Parker stays at the table, digging his linen sleeves into the sticky, splintered timber as he and Quentin talk.

There’s a brilliance to Parker, once Quentin gets him all alone, so full of promise—he’s everything Quentin expected and more. (Jesus, is it easy—a friendly arm around his shoulders and a wink his way, disarming as he leans into the other’s space. It’s not hard to see how Parker’s pupils dilate this close to each other). Parker doesn’t have much experience with fellas, honest in a way that would’ve probably gotten both of them in trouble if Quentin didn’t own the damn place. He’s so clearly trying to play it cool and failing miserably. It’s cute, sweet, and completely out of place in Beck’s “conquer or be conquered” way of life.

“Feel like taking this somewhere more private?” If it was up to Quentin, he’d have Parker over the table, right here and right now—lick the backwater bourbon he’s made over the topography of Parker’s chest, bite his way into the skin there, mark him up completely as the lounge singer croons about being consumed.

Patience, he’s got to finesse this just right, get Parker to come back for more.

Parker takes a glance at his friends on the dance floor, for a crazy second Quentin wonders if he’s moved too soon, especially at the look one of Parker’s friends sends Quentin’s way. It’s a pity, Quentin thought he had her, played to her fiery and contrarian nature with practiced ease. Just when Quentin’s about to play his ‘apology’ card, act all shame-faced and remorseful, Parker breaks eye-contact with his friend, irritation rolling off him. Quentin tries not to smirk, just when he thought his luck couldn’t get any better—

“Got a place in mind?” Parker asks, hand on his wrist, the alcohol making him equal parts brave and foolish.

Quentin fights to conceal how dizzy the satisfaction of being this close to finally getting what he’s wanted makes him. He plays up a sudden reluctance as if he’s about to withdraw his offer.

“If you’re sure Parker, I don’t—”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Parker cuts in stubborn and so fucking foolish because of it, Quentin feels his dick twitch in his pants.

“Follow me.”

*

Quentin’s barely got the door closed behind them before Parker’s rushing him against the wall of his office. He kisses him like he’s got a point to prove, easily slotting himself between Quentin and the wall.

“Whoa, whoa—where did that come from?” Quentin is hesitant to pull away like hell is he ruining his suit when he can just as easily ruin Parker on his new couch. “Aren’t you at least going to let me tell you how pretty you are first?”

Parker shrugs, easing off just enough for the pressure against Quentin’s back to lessen. They’re both hard, Quentin can feel Parker’s dick through his linen slacks. The friction is good when Parker writhes against him, Quentin wants desperately to rub Parker through his clothes, ruin him like this and let him walk back home, back to Stark Industries smelling of sex and Quentin’s cologne. Parker’s dangerous—so many possibilities, so many ways that Quentin wants to debase him.

“I don’t need that kinda stuff.” Parker says, eyebrow quirking as he lets Quentin direct him to the couch on the opposite side of the wall. “What I need is your cock, Mr. Beck.”

  
_**Fuck.**_

Parker wasn't such a fucking boy scout after all—definitely kisses like he's done it before. Quentin swallows past the cloud of want in his lungs—if that was the way Parker wanted to play it, wanted Quentin to be rough, then fine. He could do rough.

Two could play this game.

*

Parker rides him like he was fucking born to do it, like a goddamn pro. He’s tight, tight enough that Quentin has to put real effort to not push his face into the cushions and_ take, take, take_. Parker may not be a virgin, but he’s all hot heat and punched out whines—Quentin can barely breathe. He’d been right about Parker’s thighs, they’re fucking amazing—he’s already left bite marks all over them. Parker’s hands shake on Quentin’s shoulders as he moves, biting his lip as he tries to control the pace.

Quentin shifts his hips, knows exactly where to angle just so, the drag of his dick hitting Parker’s prostate as he moves and the younger man spasms on top of him. He repeats the action, Parker leaning forward as he tries to adjust to the sheer amount of pleasure that floods his system.

Quentin strokes his back, ignores the urge to run his nails down the musculature that he feels under his hands.

“Shh, it’s ok Parker. Just relax, let yourself enjoy the ride.” Quentin soothes even as he thrusts his hips up, undermining the pace that Parker’s set for them. Parker opens his mouth to argue just as Quentin fucks into him harder, hitting his prostate every time. Parker’s dick lets out another burst of pre-cum at the action, his words dissolving into a moan.

“Yeah Parker, that’s it—just like that.” Parker shuts his eyes, matching Quentin’s thrusts with a strangled hiss of his name. Quentin knows he isn’t going to last, not like this, not with Parker in his arms, flushed pink and debauched. He moves his hand to start stroking Parker through it, feels the stutter of other’s hips as the pleasure overwhelms him.

Quentin kisses him through it. He catches Parker’s cries into his mouth as he strokes him through his orgasm, fucks him even as Parker starts to get on the painful side of tight. Quentin keeps going, thrusting erratically until he finally spills deep inside.

*

“You know, it’s ok if you want to come again.” Parker tries for nonchalance as he continues to button up his shirt (they’re limited on cleanup, both of them filthy and smelling of sex and really, Quentin’s already half-hard knowing Parker was going to be making the walk of shame in his current state). It’s not exactly convincing, Quentin makes no move to re-dress himself outside of putting on his pants as he notes the conflicting emotions behind Parker’s sudden silence. Quentin isn't offended, far from it really. It’s not outright rejection—he can work with that. As nice as it would be to get Parker head over heels for him, he doubted it was going to be easy. He's looking at running a long gambit, he's just pleased he got to fuck Parker raw so quickly. 

“I’ll—I’ll think about it.” Parker says, hands stumbling over the last button as he takes one last look at Quentin shirtless and reclining on his couch like a king. He licks his lips, tries to downplay the way he’s obviously committing the sight to memory, Quentin pretends not to notice.

Maybe the gambit wouldn’t be as long as he expected after all.

“Well, if you do come back—I’ll let Brock at the front know to let you in. Personal friends of mine are always welcome.” Quentin replies, a devil’s smile in place, temptation in his cadence. He knows he’ll be seeing more of Peter Parker, it was just a matter of time.

**Author's Note:**

> It was hard not to let my boner for all things Mafia-related from taking over, the original version of this fic that had to be cut out entirely had like a weird sort of AU of Boardwalk Empire where Tony was a Rosthein-like figure and Beck was like a spurned Luciano, and Peter was collateral damage. Also it was like 3k and rambling so I'm not kidding when I say I want to revisit this whole AU one day. I don't even know. I really, really wanted to show Peter's side of things because it mostly translated to gay frustration because Beck is hot but also a huge dick and a very obvious mistake that Peter makes ANYWAY.
> 
> Anyways, hoping to finally put up the rest of the Mysterio/Spiderman fanfic up soon since I'm nearly finished with some and at least, I feel inspired now. Love my fellow sinners you know you who are.


End file.
